Making It Count
by poorlittlerichgirl91
Summary: Titanic doesn't hit the iceberg, but that doesn't necessarily mean it's going to be smooth sailing for Jack and Rose.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors Note: This is a complete re-write of a story I started in 2005 when I was 11. Needless to say because of my age and inexperience with writing, love, and life in general, the whole thing was pretty terrible. Imagine writing sex scenes when you don't even know how sex works. Lmao. Anyway, over a decade later (and with a renewed love of all things Titanic), I wanted to give writing a proper Jack and Rose story another go. If there's much interest, I'll carry on.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

The young couple laughed uproariously as they felt the bitter April chill bite their flesh; a welcome contrast after how stifling the boiler rooms had been. Jack unlaced their hands to clumsily slam the heavy door behind them as they ran onto the deck before hearing it ricochet open again behind him, earning more gleeful laughter from Rose. He laughed again before finding her hand and swinging her playfully, her giggle cutting through the velvet darkness of the North Atlantic night sky like a silver ribbon.

"Did you see those guys faces?!" came Jack's choked laughter as he tugged Rose's hand closer, snaking his arms around her waist.

The evening had been full of exhilaration and excitement: from escaping Cal's vulture of a manservant, losing themselves to unspeakable heights of passion below decks, to having just evaded stewards sent to look for them in the cargo hold; Rose felt alive – revived. Jack Dawson had saved her life both physically and metaphorically: he had set her free from her gilded cage, he had given her a reason to go on; he had breathed his life and vivacity and passion into her: fanning the dimming flames in her soul and saving her broken spirit with his love.

_Love._

"Did you see the-"

She loved this man. She **_loved_** him.

Rose gently brought a finger to his lips to silence him, as if staking her claim. He stopped mid-sentence and instead tightened his grip around her waist protectively, giving her his full attention. Her hand then moved from his silky lips to cup one side of his face, cherishing him, as she gazed into those beautiful, soul-searching eyes she'd come to know so well. He was such a beautiful man - and his charisma, charm, and gentle nature only added to his physical appeal. She felt incredibly grateful for him in that moment: he truly was her saviour, and she found herself wondering how she could have ever gotten so lucky.

She'd known Jack Dawson for little over forty-eight hours, yet the impact he'd had on her and the trajectory of her life, she knew, was irreversible and absolute. After being initially reluctant to accept her own feelings, even going as far as to shun him earlier that day in the gymnasium, Rose now felt a sense of welcome acknowledgement wash over her entire being: she was deeply in love.

As she saw the utter adoration reflecting in his eyes, she knew right then that she didn't want to live without him; _couldn't_ live without him. The magnetism and inspiration she felt in his presence, the safety and reassurance she felt in his embrace, the devastating passion and devotion she felt in his kiss: life as she knew it was never going to be the same.

She realised her decision was already made.

"When this ship docks," she told him, without a fragment of doubt in her conviction, "I'm getting off with you."

His jaw dropped, eyes widening in a combination of wonder and disbelief, almost afraid his ears had just deceived him. Here was Rose DeWitt-Bukater, in all her brilliant, self-governing, determined glory - so unspeakably beautiful - giving up everything she'd ever known, all for him.

"This is crazy," he almost laughed again, that gorgeous lopsided grin gracing his features.

She let out a blissful laugh at his candid reaction: no overstated sonnet, no excessive declaration of his love; just three simple words that were so endearingly, unapologetically _Jack – _just the kind of thing she'd needed and wanted to hear. Suddenly, she couldn't remember how she had lived seventeen long years in this mortal coil without knowledge of his existence; it was as if she had suddenly been awoken from a dreamless slumber: Jack Dawson was now the centre of her universe and she couldn't remember a life before him.

"I know! It doesn't make any sense!"

She gazed at his lips, already feeling too much time had passed since she'd last felt them against her own, running her manicured nails through the silky golden strands at the nape of his neck. The next five words she spoke were full of certainty – no more whimsical tones that he might misinterpret as her not being fully invested – and as she looked deeply into his eyes she knew he could hear the sincerity in her voice as she said them:

"That's why I trust it."

The way he looked at her in that moment almost made her knees buckle: never before had a man's eyes ever stared at her with such intense, unbridled love.

Every fibre of his being screamed his returned devotion to her: he was astounded. His hot gaze made the journey from her eyes to her lips - now ever so slightly chapped by the cold air – several times, silently letting her know exactly what he wanted. Her own body craved the same thing and primal passion took over as they collided in a hungry kiss, their lips fighting for dominance. Jack pulled her closer to him, crushing her soft torso against his as they panted softly into each other's mouths. He could feel her heartbeat pounding against his in the gossamer-thin dress she was wearing; the feeling intoxicating, neither of them able to get quite close enough.

Rose didn't care who watched their heated exchange, didn't care whether their fervent, uninhibited display of intense passion was considered inappropriate or improper. One person and one person only occupied her mind and heart, and it was the ministrations of his hands and lips that were keeping her mind a whirling blur – as they had been doing all night – earlier on the bow at sunset and moments before in the Renault. She felt a pang of butterflies in her abdomen at the fresh memories settling in her mind: he'd been so gentle with her; his worldly knowledge gifting her wave after wave of ecstasy so divine she was sure she'd experienced heaven itself. Countless minutes later, breathless and on unsteady feet, their scorched lips finally separated. They gazed into each other's eyes in wonder, their noses touching slightly, knowing grins spreading across their flushed faces.

They laughed again, softly this time, Jack's eyes sparkling as he grinned and brought a hand to lovingly trace her porcelain jawline delicately with his calloused, artist fingers. Rose never wanted to feel any other hands on her for as long as she lived.

"Oh Rose," he sighed, his eyes portraying nothing but complete adoration, "Winning that ticket was the best thing that ever happened to me..." both hands were cupping her face now, their mouths inches apart once more, but she couldn't help missing the intimate closeness of his arms around her waist – she noticed the lack of contact was almost amplified: all she could feel was the space where Jack's arms were supposed to be. Absentmindedly, she shivered, the bitter sea air feeling like daggers on the exposed flesh of her forearms.

Jack immediately looked down at her, concerned, mentally scolding himself for not thinking to lend her the overcoat he was wearing. He was cold himself, but at least he had layers on, as opposed to Rose who had just the lightweight chiffon dress to shield her from the piercing Atlantic winds. She wasn't even wearing a corset - something he'd been grateful for when undressing her earlier in the Renault, but now for the sake of her warmth wished she had on.

He instinctively brought his arms around her, firmly rubbing her goose-pimpled arms in an attempt to warm her.

"Shit, Rose, you must be freezing!" he fretted. "Let's get inside, huh?"

Rose welcomed the familiar feeling of his arm around her waist as he began to lead them across the deck and up the stairs towards the bridge. She sighed against his body happily – thinking about how natural and normal and _right_ it felt for Jack to be holding her so intimately.

"You kept me warm, Jack." she shrugged, turning to face him, a mischevious glisten in her eyes.

He blushed at the double meaning; grinning that wide, crooked grin as she closed the distance between them and kissed him.

It was a kiss of admission, of realisation; of excitement and hope for the future – for _their_ future. Together. He deepened the kiss, his tongue parting her lips gently as he leant back against the outside wall of the first-class entrance, tugging her closer to him and resting his hands above the sash on her dress. She smiled against his mouth, snaking her hands up his shirt and grasping his suspenders, using them to pull him even closer to her.

Rose sighed against his lips, never wanting the night to end. She glanced at the sign that read 'First Class Entrance' and felt a pang of dread and apprehension, realising they were both prolonging the inevitable by not returning.

"Jack, I have to tell mother and Cal the engagement is off."

Sensing her unease, he tightened his grip around her waist. "Rose, you don't need to do this by yourself," he looked at her, his eyes piercing her soul with love and support. "You jump, I jump, remember?"


	2. Chapter 2

"We've been looking for you, Miss," Lovejoy smirked as he watched the young lovers walk hand in hand towards him, standing in the gangway that lead to to the first-class staterooms.

Rose didn't acknowledge Lovejoy's presence as she and Jack passed him - he was a pest paid to follow her and deter her from her love as far as she was concerned - instead she focused on mentally preparing herself for what awaited her in the room ahead. She was taking her destiny into her own hands: in minutes she would have finally broken off her unhappy engagement with Cal and would be free. It wasn't until she felt Jack's hand jerk back that she was disturbed from her thoughts and turned to look at her fiance's manservant.

"What was that I just caught you try'na put in my pocket?" Jack raised his voice slightly at Lovejoy—who was standing so close to him in the narrow gangway he could smell the brandy on his breath. The clumsy proximity combined with the sensation of something heavy suddenly weighing down his left pocket had been a dead giveaway for Jack, who'd immediately spun in his tracks, snatching his hand behind Lovejoy's back to reveal that unmistakable blue diamond glimmering under the light.

Rose's eyes grew wide with a mixture of incredulity and disgust as she pieced the puzzle together, realising that Cal was stooping so low as to frame the man she loved in an attempt to separate her from him.

"You little shit." Lovejoy hissed under his breath, a look of quiet resignation on his face.

Too furious to speak, Rose took the diamond and marched to her stateroom, tugging Jack along behind her. The outrage she felt seemed to have given her a much-needed kick of adrenalin and courage to face whatever was waiting for her in the room ahead. She gave Jack's hand a supportive squeeze, took a deep breath, and walked through the doorway to find her mother, flushed and clearly distressed, pacing the room with a glass of brandy in her hand, Cal - cigar hanging out of his mouth - barking orders at the master-at-arms, and two other stewards who seemed to be taking it in terms photographing the room and examining Jack's portfolio; presumably scrutinising his work for an insight into his unseemly character. Rose examined the scene and almost wanted to laugh: in contempt, in exasperation; the lengths Cal was willing to go to to separate them, to tarnish Jack's reputation. She trusted Jack: she knew him, she loved him—the fact anyone was doubting his integrity, his honesty - his _nature_ \- for even one second was unbelievably offensive to her: especially when the real scoundrel was right under their noses.

_How dare they._

"Cal, your manservant was just caught trying to slip this into Jack's pocket, so you can call off your search party. It seems your elaborate plot to frame him as a thief has been foiled," Rose spoke, slamming the diamond onto the clothed table in thr middle of the room, her voice calm and collected.

Cal narrowed his eyes, seeing the two walk into the room with their hands clasped so intimately. He zeroed in on Rose, looking at her with pure revulsion - her untamed fiery curls cascading over her shoulders, her thin dress clinging to her voluptuous curves in such a way that suggested underneath it was nothing but the creamy flesh of her naked body: flesh she had never shown to him; flesh he had coveted for months now. He had rationalised her lack of sexual interest as excessive modesty: she was simply too much of a lady. Yet, here they were, Rose having humiliated him on an almost unprecedented level: uncovering that sacred flesh she refused to him - her future husband - but had gladly flaunted to a third class penniless vagrant she'd known for two days.

"How dare you bring him here." Ruth breathed out, her robust body quivering as she glared at her daughter, enraged tears threatening to fall.

Seeing Ruth's imminent faltering - and sensing his own temper rising - Cal turned to the stewards and master-at-arms and quietly dismissed them, accepting the plan he'd devised tonight had failed. He was going to have to think of something else. The three men left the room silently - the atmosphere growing unbearably uncomfortable - just as Lovejoy walked in, tail between his legs, closing the stateroom door behind him.

"Lovejoy, hopefully once for the duration of this passage you'll successfully fulfil your duty. Escort Dawson back to steerage where he belongs," Cal ordered, shooting him a malicious glare.

"There will be no need for your undertaker of a manservant to escort Jack anywhere." Rose interjected.

"Don't you _dare_ answer me back after the way you've behaved on this voyage." Cal's stern voice and hate-filled eyes made Rose cower slightly as he walked closer to her, causing her to replay the events at breakfast in her mind and instantly reminding her of the fear he was able to instil with those dark, maddened eyes.

Noticing Cal walking towards Rose, Jack took a protective step in front of her, saying nothing, squaring up to Cal and meeting his eyes with as much venom as was being projected outwards. Jack held his head high - not intimidated in the slightest - the faintest hint of a smug smirk gracing his handsome features as if to gloat:_ all the money, extravagance, and diamonds in the world, and your fiance still wants me instead of you. _

"Satisfied, Dawson? Adding an upper class lady to your roster of impoverished whores must be quite the big win for you," Cal said in a low tone.

Jack did not react: he knew that's what Cal wanted. He simply allowed the words to fall like water off a duck's back, not once breaking eye contact with the man who made the woman he loved miserable. Nothing Cal could say could have any effect on Jack: he was untouchable, and Cal knew this too.

"You stupid, selfish girl! Do you have the slightest comprehension of what you've done?!" Ruth almost shrieked now the door was closed.

Rose took another step forward, moving her other hand to hold Jack's so that now both her hands were clasping his for extra support. She felt a momentary soothing calmness wash over her as the rough skin of his thumb rubbed the top of her knuckles affectionately.

It was taking everything in Jack to fight the urge to raise his voice and defend her, but he knew Rose needed to do this on her own and he couldn't speak on her behalf. The words they were using to describe her - _selfish, stupid _\- she was neither of those things. Couldn't they see that? Didn't they care about her happiness or wellbeing at all?

"Yes Mother," she spoke calmly. "For once in my life, I've acted of my own accord,"

"And your actions have been appaling! You've made a complete spectacle of yourself! You've humiliated me, you've tarnished our name, embarrassed Mr. Hockley–" Ruth's voice was laced with panic, she could feel her financial security slipping away by the second. "Your wedding is in three weeks!"

"Mother, the wedding is off," Rose spoke calmly but with fierce conviction.

"Because of him?!" Now it was Cal's turn to falter, his voice breaking in disbelief and outrage. "You're breaking off our engagement to be a whore to a gutter rat?!"

Something snapped in Rose when she heard Cal refer to the man she loved as subhuman vermin. She unlaced her hands from Jack's and walked towards Cal – suddenly unafraid of him – her previously-collected anger replacing any fear she felt. Rose felt oddly protective over Jack; the man she'd given her heart, soul, and body to. _He was better than all of them._

"I'd rather be his whore than your wife," she spoke, not flinching once as she glared into his darkened eyes.

Ruth gasped loudly at Rose's words, her hand covering her mouth in an elaborate display of shock. "Rose, have you completely lost your mind?!"

In a flash and before anyone had time to react, Cal's hand flew to meet Rose's right cheek with such harsh force she was knocked off balance, her fiery curls lashed to one side. She let out a pained sob, cradling the sore mark he'd left on her face.

An angry howl escaped Jack, all previous control escaping him as his blood boiled with fury. It seemed that he was not completely untouchable after all, Cal noted, as Jack tackled him with a square punch to the jaw, knocking him to the ground.

"Don't you ever touch her!" Jack yelled through gritted teeth, almost physically pained himself, such was the connection between him and Rose. She was so precious – only to be worshipped and cherished and adored – he didn't understand how anyone could even think about hurting her.

Lovejoy used all his might to shove Jack away from Cal, positioning himself between the two men. Jack immediately gravitated towards Rose, caressing her stinging cheek gently.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, care and concern illuminating his whole face as he wrapped his arm around her protectively. She turned into him so her sore cheek was resting against the soft cotton of his open neck shirt.

"It serves you right, Rose," Ruth said firmly from across the room.

Jack gasped in disbelief, unable to comprehend what he had just heard_._ Was it really being suggested that the angel in his arms _deserved_ to be hurt? _It served her right?_

"How can you-" he began, wanting to know how her mother could possibly have suggested such a thing. He quickly realised there was probably no point in wasting his breath though.

Cal looked dazed, wiping the blood seeping from his nose as he scrambled to his feet with the help of Lovejoy.

"Rose," Ruth started, more calmly, realising it might be her last chance to act as the voice of reason for her rebellious daughter. "This has gone far enough. I told you our situation was precarious. I forbade you from seeing this boy again and you deliberately disobeyed me–"

Rose, still cradled in Jack's arms, face throbbing from the pain of Cal's strike, turned to face her mother, exasperated and annoyed.

"Mother, _that boy_'s name is Jack. and I love him."


	3. Chapter 3

"Love?" Ruth scoffed, "What do you know about love? You've known him for two days! Do you really want to end up penniless on the streets, Rose? For the sake of _love_?!" she spat, her voice bitter and cold. "Mr. Hockley can give you a life where you'll never want for anything–"

"Except happiness," Rose spoke, silencing her instantly. "Mother, these past few days with Jack have been the happiest of my life. My _life_! Before I met him, I felt suffocated. Invisible. Trapped. I wanted to die–"

"Enough of the melodramatics, Rose. You always were an obstinate child–"

"Mother, when Jack rescued me I wasn't leaning over to see the propellers. I was going to jump–"

"Well right now, perhaps it would be better for everyone if you had." Ruth snapped, her voice remorseless and barren of all emotion.

Rose gasped in reaction to the harsh words and felt the tears sting her eyes. Her relationship with her mother had always been strained, but deep down all she had ever wanted was Ruth's love and approval – it was part of the reason she'd agreed to marry Cal in the first place. Hearing her mother make such a callous, cruel remark in response to her new-found happiness cut Rose deeply; rejected by the only biological family she had.

Jack could feel Rose's pain almost like a physical ache in his own heart. He tightened his grip around her, his embrace silently letting her know that he was there, that he would always be there. "Don't you listen to her, Rose. Don't."

Cal was wiping the remainder of dried blood from his nose, having been distracted by the gripping exchange between mother and daughter. He was in a state of bafflement and daren't try to put a coherent sentence together just yet. Rose had just ended their engagement. She'd chosen a homeless vagabond over him: the son of a multi-millionaire steel tycoon. What's more, she'd brought her steerage trash with her to first-class to deliberately flaunt in front of his face and humiliate him in front of some of the most esteemed members of American and British society. She didn't think he was just going to let them get away with this, did she?

Just then, the room was disturbed by a knock at the door.

"What is it?" Cal bellowed.

Rose tried not to outwardly react, but to her horror, one of the stewards they had evaded in the cargo hold earlier walked into the room, the flashlight still in his hand. She felt Jack's grip tighten on her, as if he knew what she was thinking. They knew the man wouldn't recognise them as they'd fleed the car the moment they'd heard the echo of footsteps walk into the cargo bay, and they'd hidden well, watching their pursuers from behind the safety of boxed freight, trunks and baggage.

"Sorry to disturb you so late, Sir. We just completed our search of the Orlop Decks and Tank Top. We didn't find anybody down there, but if you'd like to accompany me to Mr. Carter's stateroom, I have some information about the condition of his Renault which may be of interest to you."

Cal raised his eyebrows, shooting a suspicious glance towards Rose, confused as to what William Carter's car of all things could possibly have to do with this situation. He let out a sigh and was about to dismiss the steward, but lingered when he noticed the urgency and – uncomfortable? – expression on the man's face. Cal was intrigued; his mind raced with possible scenarios, none of them particularly plausible. He knew he needed to devise another plan - and fast - so as reluctant as he was, decided it may be best to go along and gather information: perhaps there would be something he could use against his disobedient ex-fiance and her gutter rat.

"This conversation resumes when I'm back." Cal spoke to Rose, before turning to Lovejoy and signalling for him to follow.

Jack heard Rose breathe an almost audible sigh of relief and felt her muscles physically relax in his arms once Cal had left the room. She looked up into his eyes, a noticeably apprehensive expression paining her beautiful face. They both knew exactly what the steward was about to tell Cal – and neither of them wanted to be around to see his reaction.

"How's your cheek, huh?" he asked softly.

She cooed her response as he brought his hands to cradle her face affectionately. He tilted his head as he looked at her – adoring her – and ran his thumb over the red mark Cal had left, rubbing gently, making an unspoken vow to protect her from harm always.

"Let's go, Rose," he whispered, kissing her forehead tenderly.

Ruth was still scowling at them from across the room. "If you leave this cabin Rose, the master-at-arms will be alerted and the entire ship searched and make no mistake, you will be dragged back here by your hair."

Rose gave her mother one last sorrowful look, realising she deeply pitied her: for being so weak, so selfish – for not being able to muster the love needed to value her daughter's happiness above her own material interests.

"Goodbye, mother."

Rose laced her fingers through Jack's and turned towards the door, following Jack out the room. She'd done what she'd came here to do: she'd broken off her engagement. As they walked down the gangway towards the grand staircase she felt Jack's arm encircle her waist, pulling her closer, out of support or pride or both. She was leaving first-class a free woman.


	4. Chapter 4

It was nearing midnight and Jack and Rose were walking towards the first class elevator shaft to take them below decks. Jack absentmindedly observed the splendour and magnificence of the grand staircase as they passed it; his artist's eye appreciating the excruciating detail with which the fine wood panellings and exquisite carvings had been sculpted and constructed. He felt a guilty pang in the pit of his stomach when he realised he was taking her away from all of this; the only life she had ever known. Ruth's cold, shrill voice echoed in his mind:

_"Mr. Hockley can give you a life where you'll never want for anything–"_

"Jack?" Rose's voice was abrupt but angelic. He loved the way she said his name, the sound like oozing honey; he'd loved the way she had gasped and moaned it breathlessly as he made love to her earlier. He wanted to hear it again and again. He gave her his full attention as he looked her way; a welcome distraction from the unexpected self-doubt that was plaguing his thoughts.

"Do you still have that ten dollars in your pocket?" she asked, referencing their earlier discussion in the gymnasium.

A small smile laced with wonderment danced across his lips. _What was she up to?_ This was the Rose he loved: free to explore her sense of adventure and excitement that had been suppressed and stifled for so long; the fire her mother and ex-fiance couldn't quite contain – but had attempted time and time again to extinguish – burning like wildfire across open prairies. He pushed his free hand into the pocket of his corduroy trousers and pulled out a crumpled ten dollar note.

Rose smiled, somewhat relieved. "I have an idea,"

* * *

Rose knew where Mr. Andrews cabin was located since she'd seen him leave it many times during the voyage, mostly whilst on her way to or from the dining room on the landing of the grand staircase. She knew the dedicated shipbuilder locked himself away to work on his various calculations and blueprints long into the night, so she made the decision to walk with Jack to A-36 in the hopes he may be able to help. She knocked on the door, daintily but with some sense of urgency, and a few moments later the older man appeared, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his forearms and his collar buttons undone casually.

"Rose?" he looked somewhat surprised to see her, then saw Jack standing to her side and gave the young artist a welcome smile and nodded in greeting. "Jack." Mr. Andrews looked back at Rose and saw a look of apprehension in her eyes. "What brings you here so late, young Rose?"

Rose looked down, gathering her words, and swallowed slowly. Perhaps it was imprudent of her to come here expecting his help, but nevertheless Rose felt the two had developed a mutual rapport over the duration of the voyage; he, too, had seen past her ornamental status and considered her smart and spirited. He treated her like a person. He reminded her of her father.

"Mr. Andrews..." she started. "Forgive me. I realise this may be presumptuous of me. I will not be accompanying my mother and Mr. Hockley for the remainder of the trip. That's to say, I will not be continuing my occupancy of the parlor suite."

Thomas Andrews' looked slightly taken aback by her admission, his mathematical brain trying to assess and evaluate just what had taken place. His eyes glanced towards Jack once, and he realised he already knew. The faintest trace of a grin adorned his face.

"I realise the most affordable cabins on the ship cost fifteen dollars, but I was wondering whether ten would suffice? It's all I have..." Rose continued, holding out her palm to reveal the wrinkled ten dollar bill.

"Rose, that absolutely will not be necessary." he said adamantly, curling her hand over the money with his own. "We had fifty cancellations last minute. Something to do with a coal strike. Over half of the first-class cabins on this ship are unoccupied," he told her.

"Oh no, Sir, I couldn't possibly–"

"You'll think nothing of it. Come," he motioned for them to follow him as he began down the staircase. "The first-class purser's office is on C-Deck,"

* * *

Mr. Andrews walked towards the empty enquiry desk and rang the bell once. A few minutes later, a stout, middle-aged man who'd clearly rushed to don appropriate clothing at such a late hour appeared, his eyes slightly misty from sleep.

Jack and Rose hung back somewhat, not wanting to draw attention to themselves or be bombarded with questions about Rose's change in arrangements; as far as they were concerned, the fewer people who knew about her cabin alteration – and furthermore, the location of it – the better. As Mr. Andrews and the first-class purser exchanged words, Jack leant back against one of the oak pillars which adorned every floor of the grand staircase's sitting areas. Rose watched him, giggling at his stance. He was clueless about social etiquette and the correct ways to carry or hold oneself in public: but that's what she loved about him. He was carefree and laid back, unconcerned with the social protocol and hierarchies that people from her world revolved their lives around. Rose gazed at him as he crossed his arms casually; realising truly just how attracted to him she was.

Jack was extremely charming, charismatic; although not in an artificial way like most other men she'd met, their false charade noticeably shallow beneath the surface. On the contrary, Jack was deeply sincere, honest – almost to a fault – and gifted with extraordinary perception and empathy. She supposed he had to be, to be an artist; he could gaze into the depths of one's soul and perceive their struggle, hopes, dreams – in the most profound and compassionate way.

_You have a gift Jack. You do. You **see** people._

Rose's eyes wandered over his hands: those marvellous, sturdy, artist hands that were roughened and calloused by work and experience, yet were capable of the most magical talents and ministrations. She immediately wanted to feel them on her again. Her face suddenly felt hot as his eyes met her own and he grinned at her in such a way she almost felt her knees buckle underneath her. Of course, his impossibly good looks and well-built physique didn't help restrain the already-intense attraction she felt towards his heart and soul.

Disturbing her from her thoughts was the abrupt sound of closing shutters from the purser's office, and she tore her gaze away from Jack towards the desk to see Mr. Andrews returning to her.

"E-27." he ushered the keys into her delicate hands. "It's situated out the way and shares a deck with second-class accommodation towards the aft. Just in case you wanted to keep a low profile."

Rose let out a sigh of relief and smiled gratefully up at the man she'd come to highly admire and respect: an exception to the glib and pomposity of her world.

"Mr. Andrews, you've shown me such kindness." appreciative tears filled her sapphire and jade eyes. "I can't thank you enough."

He smiled at her and squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. "If you need anything else..." he started back up the staircase, before turning one last time to look back at her. "Good luck to you, Rose."


	5. Chapter 5

"Want me to come fetch you tomorrow?" Jack asked Rose softly as they eventually located her new cabin on E-Deck.

She looked at him puzzled, her tired eyes suddenly wide with alarm. "What?"

"My room's down on G-Deck with all the other plebeians m'lady," Jack laughed, before noticing the disappointed look in her eyes, and his smirk widened. "Now Rose, would it be entirely proper for me to stay here with you?"

Rose bit her lip, shrugging slightly. "Since when do we care about being proper, Jack?"

She had him there.

He flashed her a knowing grin as she fiddled with the key to her room, unlocking the door with ease. She walked inside and held the door open for him, an expectant smile adorning her face. He turned to examine either side of the corridor, making sure no one was around – the last thing he wanted was other passengers or stewards to give their secret away – and after seeing that the coast was clear, he discreetly slipped inside after her.

* * *

Cal placed down two twenty dollar bills onto the sitting room table of B-96, occupied by William Carter. He'd thought that stripping naked in front of that steerage ruffian would have been the pinnacle of his fiance's disobedient ways on this trip – that she would shrug it off as wanting to explore her artistic, bohemian side (Paris had definitely had a displeasing effect on her) – but in typical Rose fashion, she had found a way to go above and beyond; and it was worse than Cal could have dared to imagine. His fists were clenched whilst the steward had told the two men just what they'd found in the cargo hold: William Carter's brand new, twenty-five horsepower Renault straight from France, which had now been desecrated by Caledon Hockley's uncontrollable whore of a fiance and her penniless vermin lover. Cal felt the bile creep up his throat as the steward spoke of the steamed-up windows and the imprint of her hand emblazoned onto the rear window, a symbol of explicit and unrestrained pleasure. His teeth were gritted and his cheeks burning with a searing combination of disgust, anger, and humiliation. _That little slut._

"Twenty for the cost of interior cleaning and twenty for your discretion." Cal swallowed, his eyes barely able to meet William Carter's, who looked in equal parts embarrassed and mortified. "I can only apologise–"

He left the room without another word, stalking his way across the B-Deck corridor and back to his own suite, venom in his eyes and fury pumping through his veins.

* * *

The cabin on E-Deck, although still first-class, was far more modest than her previous stateroom on B-Deck; she supposed of course it would be; the latter being the parlour suite and the most expensive accommodation on the ship. Not that she'd minded of course - she was more than willing to sleep huddled in the third-class general room if it meant staying with Jack - she just couldn't help but draw the comparison. Cal had spared no expense during their elaborate tour of Europe and had clearly seen their crossing on Titanic as his final chance to attempt to buy her affections before the wedding. Rose visibly shuddered as she thought about when he'd presented the ridiculously ostentatious diamond to her, the subtle yet sinister connotations of what he expected from her in return evident in his voice. Jack, too, it seemed was making his own silent observations about the room. Disturbing Rose from her thoughts, she watched as he fell back onto the double bed, his elbows outstretched behind his head comfortably.

"Woah, are all beds in first-class like this? It's like layin' on a cloud," he grinned at her.

She felt herself smile as she watched him; so excitable and carefree. There was no one else like him. Rose perched at the end of the bed, removing her shoes from her weary feet, tired from running literally all over the ship. She glanced towards the ornate clock, her stomach lurching as the night's events began to settle in her mind. Not because she regretted her actions - no, never that - just that she started to realise how reckless she'd been to put Jack in such obvious danger.

"Jack, I'm worried about what Cal will do when he's told about the..." she stammered, the blush forming on her cheeks. "When he finds out that we..."

Jack sat up now, moving beside her and wrapping supportive arms around her waist. He said nothing, but kissed her shoulder gently, giving her room to speak her mind freely.

"You don't understand how angry he'll be." Rose continued. "For months now he's been trying to buy his way into my heart... and into my bed..." she swallowed, the words leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. "I denied him so many times, feigning illness or tiredness, content with playing the role of his chaste and modest virgin bride–"

Jack didn't know what to say. He just held her tighter. Was she saying she regretted their actions that night? Yes, they had been reckless but it was so frenzied and passionate and it had all happened so fast. Fleetingly, he scolded himself for not seeing this coming. Of course, there had not been a shred of doubt or uncertainty from her at the time; he'd made sure of that, but he should have known she would regret her decision sooner or later. He should have slowed the pace, should have controlled himself... but then there had been her hands undoing his buttons and her eyes so full of need and desire, and he had followed her without assumption or expectation, until she lay underneath him begging him with her eyes to take the lead once she found herself in uncharted waters: and he had, because she'd wanted him to. He bit his lip, angry at himself.

"I'm sorry, Rose."

Her hands found his arms now, and she caressed him gently. "What?"

"The car. I should have thought about the consequences and shown some restraint, I-"

"No, Jack. I wanted it to happen. I'm glad it happened."

Rose had always anticipated the taking of her virginity with dread and apprehension; she'd heard the rumours of what to expect; the bleeding and discomfort that were guaranteed, she'd listened apprehensively to the guidance from society matrons as her wedding had drawn closer over the months: the advice to lie back and think of something else, to keep her mind occupied with other matters as her new husband claimed her body for himself. But now Rose was feeling more perplexed than ever: Jack had made her first time beautiful and tender and intimate, she had _enjoyed_ it; never wanted it to end, as unseemly as that initially made her feel. Rose was left wondering why – out of all the times she'd heard about the fabled, dreaded wedding night over the years – nobody had ever mentioned that intense, divine pleasure she'd experienced earlier with Jack? Was it supposed to be like that?

"I'm not gonna let him touch you, Rose." Jack's voice brought her back to the present, so close and safe, almost humming against her ear.

"I don't care what he does to me," she smiled, almost sadly. "I just don't want you to get hurt, Jack."

"He doesn't scare me."

"But his money, Jack. He has powerful connections, what if he–"

"Don't worry about me," he kissed her skin softly. "I'll be fine. I'm a survivor, alright?"

Rose turned her body to face him, nearly gasping at the beauty of his handsome features in the dim light. They looked at each other for a few moments, cherishing their time in each other's company, where sometimes words were not necessary. Jack took another look at the graze on her cheek, letting out a pained sigh.

"Oh, Rose," he whispered, his voice full of guilt as he caressed the porcelain skin of her face, running his thumb over the slight graze now forming on her left cheek. "You know I'd never hurt you, don'tcha?" one hand framing her face gently, looking into her eyes with such intense concern that she wanted to cry. The way his eyebrows furrowed as he scanned over the mark Cal had inflicted, it was as if he was physically pained by seeing evidence of her being hurt.

Nobody had ever shown so much attentiveness towards her before. Of course, her servants and mother and Cal had been involved with the upkeep of her general health - mostly to ensure that expensive, extravagant plans flowed smoothly and no illness came as a disturbance or an inconvenience - but nobody had ever looked at her with such tenderness; no one had ever cared about her like Jack.

Rose let out a breath she hadn't been aware she was holding – the result of him being so close to her – and gasped out a choked laugh, shaking her head and looking at him as if to say _of course I know that._

He closed his mouth over the bruised skin ever so gently, his lips placing soft, fragile kisses all over her face.

"Jack," she breathed.

She ran her hands up and over the length of his torso, tugging on his suspenders eagerly and bringing him forward to close the rest of the distance between them, their lips meeting in a hungry kiss.

* * *

"Where are they?" Cal growled at Ruth, trying desperately to control his anger as he walked into their parlour suite on B-Deck. "Your daughter has embarrassed me for the last time, Ruth."

His pupils were big and dark, an abyss of white-hot anger, and as she looked into his crazed eyes, for the first time Ruth DeWitt-Bukater felt fear in Cal Hockley's presence.

"They left. I tried to stop them, but Rose's stubbornness is proving difficult to reign in. First thing in the morning I'm ordering a full search party of the entire ship," she spoke as softly as her anger would allow, believing – or hoping – that a calm disposition would also calm her daughter's jilted fiance - who also just so happened to be their only key to financial survival. "Mr. Hockley, I know my daughter's actions on this crossing have been reprehensible, but I firmly believe that once she's off this ship and back in Philadelphia where she belongs, and away from that... that _fiend_..." Ruth had to swallow the distaste that surfaced in her mouth at the mere mention of him. "Rose will make an honourable and devoted–"

Cal shot her a look she had never seen on his face before, one that was somewhere between derision and contempt.

"Ruth, your daughter left any shred of honour in third-class."

"She will be disciplined, Hockley–"

"The circumstances have changed."

Ruth tried to compose herself; tried not to look or sound desperate, but she knew her security was slipping. She decided to change the subject in attempt to calm his temper, "What did Mr. Carter's Renault have to do with all of this?"

Cal's eyes met hers and she realised she had made a mistake.


	6. Chapter 6

"Y'know, I actually saw Monet once,"

Rose gasped in delight, turning to face him with wide eyes.

"Through a hole in his garden fence at Giverny," Jack continued, nodding at her disbelief. "He was painting on his bridge, underneath the cherry blossoms, facing out across the garden pond with a giant canvas. If I hadn't been so awestruck and there wasn't a good chance I was gonna get arrested for trespassing, I would've gotten out my sketchbook then and there," he laughed gently, tracing tiny circles on her shoulder with his fingertips.

They were laid back against the pillows on the double bed of Rose's newly-assigned first-class cabin, still fully dressed, neither one particularly sleepy. Jack was regaling her with tales of his travels, much to her delight.

"Imagine if he'd been working on Water Lilies at that very moment," Rose sighed whimsically.

She sank deeper into his arms, loving the feeling of being nestled against him so intimately. She loved conversations with Jack: he made everything feel so personal, and she was feeling a deep affinity towards him as they bonded over art; she didn't understand quite why, but knowing the man she loved was as passionate about something she also shared an interest in filled her with a deep, profound sense of contentment.

"I saw Degas in person a few months ago. There was an exhibition being held next door to our hotel... So after dinner one evening, once mother had retired and Cal had wandered off to the gentlemen's club, I snuck out."

Jack turned to her and smiled wide, raising his eyebrow in surprise. _There it was:_ her fire.

"I started collecting his pieces once mother decided it was time to swap my ballet slippers for corsets," she said, almost sadly as she looked up at the ornate ceiling. "I missed the freedom of dancing so much; suffocated in those steel-boned contraptions and unable to move, wishing that I was a Degas ballerina and could just float away into one of his paintings..."

Rose looked down again now, laughing off the melancholy tone in her voice and expecting Jack to roll his eyes at her feminine sensitivity. But as she looked at him, she saw no trace of ridicule or jest: he looked genuinely touched, as if he realised this was a part of her soul she was sharing with him. She was so unapologetically filled with the desire for more: more experience, more wisdom, more adventure; she was such an exception - so wonderfully broad-minded for the narrow confines of her world and its stifling expectations, and he cherished her wildly for it.

* * *

"You heard me." Cal hissed, his eyes glaring at Ruth.

"Mr. Hockley, I-" Ruth placed a hand over her heart to calm herself down. "You've been mistaken. She can't have. She wouldn't–"

"She _did_, Ruth." he snapped, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the gilded chair in the living room of the parlour room suite.

Ruth shook her head dismissively, trying to fight the bile from creeping up her throat. "No, no, it's all a misunderstanding I'm sure. Tomorrow I intend to get to the bottom–"

Cal felt his anger rising again, remembering the intimate details that the steward had shared with him. "Would you like me to accompany you below decks so you can see for yourself?"

"See what?"

His eyes grew dark. "The stain of your daughter's virgin blood on the backseat of Mr. William Carter's automobile."

* * *

"I arrived in Paris a few months after my nineteenth birthday, at the start of 1911, around the time cubism started becoming the only style of art that mattered as far as the _Société des Artistes Indépendants_ were concerned," Jack scoffed, an amused smirk on his face.

Rose watched him intently, smiling at his animated facial expressions as he spoke. She had lost count of the amount of times she had asked Cal or her mother if they could visit the famed _Salon d'Automne_; a question they'd dismissed haughtily, neither one having much interest in the modern – and sometimes radical – eccentricities of Parisienne art circles.

"I'm surprised you don't like cubism, Jack," she thought aloud. "Bohemians that were tired of tradition, forming their own movement and angering one hundred narrow-minded art critics in the process..."

"I wonder why such a rebellious movement spoke to you," he teased, pausing as a giggle escaped her lips. "Nah, I respect that element of it, but the art itself... It just never seemed to have any heart to it. Paris, for me, was about living on the streets and trying to get that down on paper," he spoke with his hands now, his irises burning with enthusiasm.

She sighed dreamily again, her face closer to his now, appreciating him deeply as their eyes met.

"Is all of Paris not beautiful?" she wondered out loud, somewhat naively.

He smiled at her – not condescendingly or patronisingly – though a little amused at her obliviousness to the dismal slums and squalor-infested tenements within which he had travelled. He thought back to his days wandering the Rue Saint-Denis and the East end streets of Paris, where the most common source of livelihood was made through theft and prostitution.

"No, sweetheart." he simply said.

_Sweetheart?_ Rose felt her cheeks blush. She supposed it was silly to be feeling giddy over such a small act of endearment – especially when they had already gone as far as physically consummating their affections for each other – but yet, it was the first time he'd referred to her so tenderly.

"Paris has this sinister underbelly – poverty, criminals, prostitution, sickness, disorder, decay – veiled by the light and art and riches and beauty. The good and bad co-exist together. I wanted to show that in my work. Anyone can paint a glistening landscape of stars reflecting on the Seine in the name of impressionism, but where's the authenticity in that when you've seen what's beyond it?"

_"_You irresistible _realist__,"_ Rose snaked her hand up to rest on his chest. God, he was wonderful.

Jack grinned, a laugh escaping his lips. He resumed making little circles on her shoulder as she began talking, defending cubism to him. They weren't arguing – or even debating – it's clear that both were enjoying the conversation and learning from each other.

"When I look at Picasso's work I feel as though I'm lost inside a dream or something. It's extraordinary; that despite all those technical and compositional absurdities, there's a profound truth. As if it's exactly meant to be that way. Some things are just so beautiful they defy reason - _transcend_ \- logic..." she paused, meeting his eyes.

Jack realised he'd never felt such a strong connection to another human being before.

"Like this,"

She leant in to kiss him tenderly, with building desire. If Jack had had more time to react he would have blushed: her admission was so romantic and thoughtful. The words she spoke earlier echoed in his mind, and he pulled her closer to him, kissing her without restraint as he traced his tongue along her bottom lip.

_It doesn't make any sense. That's why I trust it._

She moaned against his mouth gently as she felt him deepen the kiss, shifting in the bed and pulling him down on top of her.

* * *

Ruth had almost fallen into the nearest chair as Cal had said those words – a combination of shock and panic and revulsion and horror overcoming her whole being – and she immediately started fanning herself, heart racing, stomach lurching. Rose's virginity, and thus her marriage to Cal, had been the only way to stabilise their financial security and impeccable social standing. Now they were ruined and there was absolutely no way back - not now - and the realisation had hit, hard.

"You raised a harlot. A defiant little _whore_ who – mark my words – will _never_ have a place in polite society again," Cal was almost spitting at her now, his face red and contorted with rage, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.

"I think I need some air-" Ruth almost choked out, not really hearing his harsh words, turning to face the door leading to their private promenade deck. "Trudy!"

"What you _need_, Ruth, is–"

"Yes Ma'am?" Trudy's voice could be heard from the other side of the door as she knocked twice.

"There's been an accident–" Ruth let the tears flow now, fast and hard, feeling her life of lavish luxuries disappear from around her. As the reality sunk in deeper, so did the frantic need to escape the situation any way she could, even if it meant resorting to desperate or dangerous measures.

"Ma'am?" Trudy looked at Ruth concerned, flashing a look of confusion towards Cal.

"Rose has taken ill," Ruth cried, trying to regain her composure as Trudy dabbed away her tears with a handkerchief.

Cal watched in quiet indignation, having had enough of the DeWitt-Bukater's and their penchant for operatics. He turned on his heel, ready to finally retire to his cabin for the night, when he heard the unusual request Ruth made:

"Trudy, please, have my laudanum ready for her in the morning. She will be needing hourly doses and supervised bedrest for the remainder of the voyage."


	7. Chapter 7

His hands and lips were everywhere and suddenly so was he; all five of her senses buzzed in reaction to the intimate radiance of his warmth, his beauty, his love. He was all she could focus on and it seemed that the world around them ceased to exist as Jack overtook her mind, body, and soul for the umpteenth time that night. It was all so new and overwhelming, but she knew with unabridged certainty that this is what she wanted for the rest of her life. As his lips grazed against her neck, she felt her grip on reality begin to slip, and she was certain that the world would cease turning if he stopped his ministrations: her new life-source was his kisses, his touch, his whispers of love – she had never felt such desire, had never felt so alive – and she was sure the _thump, thump, thump_ of her heartbeat raced to its very own _Jack, Jack, Jack._

"Jack..." she whispered deliciously, letting it roll over her tongue like sugar, loving the sound and the taste of it.

"Say it again," he groaned, slipping off her dress and hitching up her knees to unravel her stockings.

She felt a stab of pleasure at the erotic way he'd spoken and the hazy desire coating his eyes. Suddenly she wanted more. "Make me."

"Is that a challenge?" he raised his eyebrows playfully, a mischievous grin starting to form. "'Cos you know I can..."

Rose bit her lip, blushing profusely as she remembered the Renault mere hours ago: her passionate sighs of pleasure as she'd cried out his name over and over. Her eyes travelled down his body as she watched him slide his shirt off, exposing his smooth golden skin. Without thinking, she sat up and eagerly reached for the buttons on his corduroy pants.

He stilled, cherishing her as he gazed into her eyes – not sure he would ever tire of seeing such desperate desire in them – and for _him!_ – how had he gotten so lucky? Immediately he was overcome with the need to satisfy her, to focus on her pleasure alone, to make her feel as beautiful as she was. He lifted her delicate hands away from him and laid her back down.

"Not this time, Rose."

She furrowed her brows in confusion, lacing their fingers tenderly, a silent question lingering in her eyes. He simply smiled, kissing her slowly, working his way down her neck, tearing his hands away from hers to trace the curves of her frame as his lips travelled lower, and lower still. _What was he doing? Is he supposed to be doing that? _The muscles in her abdomen twitched as he kissed over her navel, and she felt her whole body tense up as he reached the hem of her silk bloomers.

"Do you trust me?" he looked up at her.

The adoration in his eyes immediately relaxed her, and she smiled at him lovingly. "I trust you."

She watched curiously as he delicately slid off the only remaining garment she was wearing, expecting to see him make his way back up to her lips. Grinning knowingly and still positioned between her legs, he lowered his mouth to her; his eyes – glazed over with insatiable love and desire – glued to hers to gauge her reaction. Rose moaned involuntarily, never having imagined that people did such things. She threw her head back in ecstasy, surrendering under his mouth as he took her back to the stars.

"Jack..."

* * *

Cal Hockley awoke to three abrupt knocks on his stateroom door. He groaned, a sharp pang – the likely result of one too many brandies – shot through the left side of his head. After a moment, Lovejoy walked into the room and immediately began his duties, pulling out clothing from the wardrobe.

"Morning, sir. Breakfast?"

He grumbled in response.

...

Cal walked to the first-class Café Parisien, deciding against joining the majority of his peers in the Dining Saloon. He didn't want to confront any questions about Rose's absence - something he knew people had already began to question at dinner the previous evening. He had felt their eyes on him as he'd glared at his pocket-watch and routinely excused himself to consult with Lovejoy every hour.

He reached the café, being seated immediately. The morning sunshine warmed his face as he sipped his coffee. He was relieved that Ruth had decided to take breakfast on their private promenade; he'd spent more time with his fiancé's mother on this voyage than had ever seemed necessary, and he was beginning to loathe the mere sight of her.

He ate alone, grateful that none of his peers had chosen the same location. With nothing but the quiet hum of other's conversations for background noise, he reached for the morning newspaper and began to read quietly.

"Oh, good gracious!"

His head twinged at the loud outburst from the table behind. He sighed indignantly. _Women_.

"Shh, shh, my dear."

"-I've a good mind to complain, Edith."

"Good heavens! To overhear such a thing!"

"You're sure it was... _that_?"

Cal couldn't help but listen now, intrigued at the prospect of overhearing a scandal. He leant back in his wicker chair discreetly and tilted his head closer toward the small group of women gossiping behind him.

"I tell you, that's what I heard. Absolutely outrageous! Newlyweds no doubt."

"But Eloise, I thought the stateroom next to yours was empty? Weren't you going to purchase it for your lady's maid?"

"It _was_. That's what's so bewildering. Nobody occupied that room until this young couple last night."

Cal stilled. _No... Surely not. _

"But nobody's boarded since Cherbourg! How would a young couple get keys to an empty cabin?"

"Quite the quandary, isn't it? Somebody on this ship knows something."

"Eloise are you _quite_ sure that's what you heard? It wasn't the clanging of machinery or something?"

"Frances, I could hear her screeching his name. For hours. I'd rather not think about it, I feel quite ill."

"But surely nobody in first-class would act so–"

"There are some lower-class rooms on E-Deck I believe... Along with some of the new money." Another woman disdainfully added. "Like that vulgar Brown woman."

"What was the name you heard, Eloise?"

The group giggled as she groaned loudly, fanning herself. Cal's heart raced.

"Jack."

His eyes widened as he shot up from the table, the crockery and china teacup clinking loudly. The women's uproarious laugher stopped.

"Mind your step, Sir." A steward steadied him.

Cal stormed out of the cafe furiously. When he reached the grand staircase, he'd managed to somehow compose himself. Jack was a common name, after all; he had three servants employed at his estate with that name alone. He made a note to fire them immediately upon his return - he was not sure he'd ever be able to stomach the sound of that wretched name again.

He saw Lovejoy approaching out of the corner of his eye, and smirked.

He wouldn't jump to conclusions–

_E-Deck, the woman had said_.

–But it wouldn't hurt just to check.


End file.
